Pretense
by whitereflections12
Summary: You think it’s funny, sometimes. Or at least that’s what you to say, to cover up the fact that it hurts more than you’d have ever thought. Most of the time, though, you just try not to think about it at all.


Alright, first off, to my fellow Twilight fans; have no fear. I am still rapidly becoming a mostly Twilight author. Though I really do need to go back and work on some of my other unfinished things that need by attention. But anyway, this idea came to me the other day and I really wanted to do it. Don't worry I'll probably (knock on wood) have the ninth chapter of To Love and Protect up tomorrow. And a oneshot about Leah sometime soon.

To everyone else, here's the introductory A/N. Anyway, this is an idea that's been bouncing around my head for a few days. One of two ideas I'm using as an exercise in second person because I think they're both well suited for it.

Alrighty. This is my first official Gunsmoke-fan action, as I'm a recent convert. Who swore up and down I'd NEVER like an old Western, that I HATED old Westerns. Ha. I am convinced that if Marshall Dillon can convert me, he can convert anyone. So here goes. Nope, I don't own them. I just love them.

And one last note: I have only seen the seasons that are out on DVD…just 1 and 2, I believe. So that's as far as my knowledge goes.

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You think it's funny, sometimes. Or at least that's what you to say, to cover up the fact that it hurts more than you'd have ever thought. Most of the time, though, you just try not to think about it all.

There are some things that work better if you don't think. Reflex reactions, that sort of thing. And that's really fitting honestly, because that's always what it's felt like. Complete second nature.

You can't remember, now, a time when you weren't close to Matt. Any thoughts of it seem unreal, like another woman's life entirely. You can remember before things became the way they are now, of course, but never a time when he wasn't everything. He has been everything for a long time now. Probably longer than he knows, but you'd never tell him that. His ego is big enough already, though he does an admirable job of keeping it in check, for a man.

Speaking to him is as easy as breathing, as comfortable as your own skin. You can remember finding out that his voice is the most steadying thing in the world, remember the first time you heard it in a crisis. Heard it, and knew that you would need no other anchor for the rest of your life. He would hold you in place, keep you from drifting even in high wind.

Despite the fact that he is your anchor, or perhaps because of it, your greatest urge has always been for his protection. It sounds crazy, insane. The brave, strong Marshall Dillon needs protection from no one. Or so the masses say. So he would say, and even you, most of the time. Oh he needs it alright, but not from the gun or knife or any other damned weapon some drunk idiot brings into Dodge.

No, even before you really knew what it was from, you knew there was something only you could keep away. It took some time before you found out that it was himself he needed your protection from. His fears, his doubts. They plagued him more than he would ever tell even Chester, more than he would tell anyone. Anyone but you.

You can remember the night he first broke down, the fire in his eyes, burning him from the inside. It was you he told about a young boy on his last trip, a horse thief. It was after he shot him that he found out the boy had been stealing only to get money for his dying mother, a woman who most certainly _would_ die now that she had not only no doctor but no son to care for. No one in all the world. Matt had offered money, even offered to bring her back to Doge. She had accepted neither, and he came home wondering which side was the right one, which side he had been on. You were 

the one to hold him, wrap your arms around and let him cry on your shoulder, something no one else was allowed to see. You knew, then, that he _knew_ you, trusted you. That to him, you were safe. And that meant more than anything else ever had, than anything else ever will. He is your anchor, and you are his safe place to run. And you tell yourself that if that is all God ever sees fit to give you in this life, it'll be enough. Most of the time, you believe that.

There are moments of weakness, though. There was one that first night, and almost every night since.

You waited until his tears slowed, waited for him to calm, get his cool façade on again. But not quite. Because you knew that what you would offer, gentlemen Matt wouldn't take. But _this_ man, the lost man that you held…he would take it. You took him into your arms, into your bed without hesitation. On your part, at least. He was recovered enough to be initially a little reluctant, a little questioning. To be incredibly endearing when he looked at you, brow wrinkled like it does when he's confused. "Kitty…are you sure?" And you wanted to laugh, to ask if what sort of sense you had to have to rise to a position as high as his. Because honestly, he wasn't observant if he had never seen that you were every bit as much in love with him as Chester said he was with you. You wanted to believe Chester, but that you weren't positive about. Your love, however, was something you could feel, could measure. You knew how you loved him, and in your mind, it couldn't have been more plain, more certain. You silenced him with a kiss, and he didn't protest anymore.

That first time was powerful, everything you had expected it to be. He was both tender and desperate, eager to take the comfort you offered, equally eager to take care of 'his' woman as only Matt could. No other man knew how to be a gentleman like Matt Dillon. Afterward, he fell asleep, exhausted in every possible way. Asleep, he looked like a little boy. You had never noticed that before, but how could you love him any more? How could he be more precious, more priceless to you than he already was? Well, somehow, apparently. You pulled him closer as best you could, cradled his head against your breast. He sighed in his sleep, nestled closer on his own. He was almost smiling.

And you had told yourself you'd never ask anything more of him than this, never even let yourself want anything more. But that was all broken with that one gentle movement. You had known, deep down, something would break it. it was just sooner than you'd expected. And you wanted it then, you wanted it bad. A real life together, a home. You could see it in your mind, how it would be. Making love to him, sleeping in his arms every night, waking tangled up with him. Having his children, raising them to be like their father, strong and passionate. Honest. Being his wife, Mrs.Dillon. An excuse to be always by his side, always waiting up. You did that anyway, but you'd get a title to go with it. A title, and the knowledge that he was yours and yours alone, forever. You had sworn never to think it, but once it had escaped you couldn't lock it back. And you had never, would never, want anything more than this. Not ever.

You've never told him, of course, and you never will. No, when you talk about it at all(which you rarely do, because Matt prefers not to think about this particular aspect of his life), you tell him that everything is alright. And that's enough for him, because you're a very convincing liar. He doesn't think you are, but that's in your advantage. He's used to the lies that haven't really meant anything to you, the ones you tell to fool men in the bar. This lie is important, you pour everything you have into it. You won't burden him with the truth.

So you focus on what you do have. Nights like tonight.

He comes into the Longbranch and you know. His eyes are sparkling the way they do when he has a surprise for you, something he's hiding. It's only 7, he's in so early that at first you can't hardly dare to hope it could be anything for today, for tonight. He asks, casually, if you'll take a walk with him, 

that he has something he'd like to discuss. Of course you go, of course. As if you could ever do anything less, even if you didn't think he was plotting. But he is and you know it, because he's rattling on about a case he told you all about yesterday. You know all of it, even how it ends but you don't complain or interrupt because he thinks he's fooling you and you want to let him. But you can tell where you're walking now, and when you reach your building, your heart beats faster at the way his hand lingers on your back as he opens the door. He knows that you know by now, of course, and he's grinning like a little kid, thrilled for your sake and his own that he can give you this.

Time, the greatest gift he can give you. When he shuts the door and leans over, backing you against it you ask, because you know he'll want to tell you how he pulled it off. "Shouldn't you be on patrol? I heard those Draker boys were causing some trouble earlier in the streets."

"Told Chester I'd train that new colt for him if he took patrol nights this week. To only come get me for an emergency. I think we'll be safe." And his eyes are gleaming in that 'see?' kind of way, the way that's so damn proud and in such high hopes that you'll be just as happy as he is.

And that, of course, is something you never have to pretend. You grin, pull him down for a wordless thank you. Soon he's pressing you against the door, his big hands cupping your face and kissing you as if he'd been wanting this all his life. His enthusiasm never lessens. Never ceases to make your heart ache. You'd have been fine with right there, right then but those gentlemanly tendencies mean he's never rough with you, not even a little. It's frustrating, because sometimes you'd like to see him give you everything, all of it. You know that someday it'll happen, some shooting will push him too far into his emotions to find that careful control, and you'll take advantage of the opportunity. And maybe feel a little guilty for it, because there's no way of knowing how angry at himself he'll be.

And in any case, the tenderness isn't anything to complain about, not by a long shot. He lowers you beneath him, pulls back to strip down. Sometimes, he lets you do that. But not tonight, tonight he's too eager, too ready to begin. He learned early on how to make the quickest work of your dress and he does, kissing every inch of skin he can reach in the process. This, him against you, skin on skin…that is something you'll never tire of, not ever and you tell him so in a way, tell him that you love this, the way he feels against you. What you love even more is the way his body shudders when you say things like that, the way his hands grip tightly, pull you even closer.

The first time you come together is intense, quick because it's a first reunion. This thing between the two of you is a slow burning kind of need that never really eases for either of you. The longer the time is between, the more desperate you both are when you join with him again. The second time is slower, more lingering. As he always is, his attention is on you entirely, and when you can breathe you tell him it's unfair, because he gives far too much more than he takes. He smiles, that heart stopping-endearing-magnificent one you can't resist, and tells you that this is how he loves it best, watching you, doing for you. How can you argue with something so damned sweet, so honest? You can't, and you don't. You kiss him, long and easy, tired. You melt against him, let him gather you onto his chest and kiss your forehead. His hand continues to trail across your back until he falls asleep, his body relaxing, breath evening.

You nestle closer when you hear a gunshot in the streets, hold your breath until you hear from the shouts that Chester's alright and it was just a misfire. Matt sleeps right through, exhausted. He works too hard, and you know it. Too dangerously too, the gun on the bedside table is a perfect reminder of it, and you try not to look at it. It looks even more menacing in the dark.

You kiss his chest, smile when he a soft hum of pleasure escapes his lips even in sleep. Like this, you can pretend. Pretend that he really is your Matt, and you really are his Kitty, and all the world knows it. Oh they suspect, as is. But you slid your hand across the sheets, pretend that there's a band 

there to catch the moonlight. Pretend that you belong to him in every sense, wonder about what it would be like to hear his beloved voice say 'Mrs.Dillon'. A tear slides down your cheek and you wipe it away before it can reach his skin. A gunshot might not wake him, but your tears would. He loves you dearly, of that you're certain. More than anything in all the world.

In the morning, you'll pretend that that's enough.

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I just love the two of them, but sometimes I want to smack Matt. Argh.

Anyway, this was my first time using second person for a oneshot; wanted to try it after I'd read a couple where it worked pretty well. so I'd really appreciate if you tell if you think it worked well. : )

I looooove reviews….


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